


couldn't come around

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Mental Illness, Trichotillomania
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:15:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know," Patrick says slowly, "you getting off on my weird impulse control thing is kind of fucked up."</p>
            </blockquote>





	couldn't come around

Patrick stares at his desk and tries to listen to Mrs. Lawson talk about the tragedy of the Roman Empire. He's half asleep, eyes heavy and drooping, chin dropping against his chest. Two hours until final bell and then it's off to Pete's place for some quality writing time, with the bonus of the giant Wentz family television to sweeten the deal. 

Patrick blinks down at his desk, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes. There are twelve red blonde hairs lined up neatly on the faux wood, their roots tiny and white against the polish. Patrick feels his face go hot and he brushes them away, onto the floor, glancing up at the people around him. No one's watching him, but he feels like he's on camera anyway, shame barreling up through his belly.

History seems to go on for approximately forever. When Patrick's phone vibrates in his pocket halfway through class, he knows without looking that it's Pete. He types an automatic _no_ without reading the message. No, he will not skip last class. No, he will not bring Pete dinner. No, he will not run off to Vegas for the weekend. 

At final bell, Patrick shoves his things into his bookbag and nearly sprints to his car. His phone buzzes as soon as he slides into the freezing driver's seat, keys already en route to the ignition.

_bring coffee_

Patrick rolls his eyes, but when he pulls out of the student lot, he aims his car at Starbucks instead of Pete's neighborhood. Coffee first, then. It's not like he's in a rush.

Pete's house is big and full of family photos and awards from all three kids. Pete's room is in the attic, but he sleeps on the plushy couch in the living room, away from the creaks of the floorboards and the sound of the wind in the rafters. Patrick's got his own key to the place dangling next to the keys to his parents' places, which he thinks is weird, but Pete refuses to take it back every time Patrick brings it up.

Pete's like some sort of coffee bloodhound, his nose leading him through the house to where Patrick is struggling out of his multitude of jackets. He scoops the cup up from the table and offers no help as Patrick knocks his glasses to the ground in the final battle with the smallest hoodie. 

Patrick glowers at him as he kicks his wet sneakers off. There's enough snow outside to climb up past his ankles, and when he walks through the living room, he leaves a damp trail on the hardwood floor.

"Took you long enough," Pete says cheerfully.

"Some asshole made me make a pit stop for coffee at rush hour," Patrick says dryly. It speaks on Pete's credit that he at least attempts to look sympathetic.

"If you would have cut class like all the other delinquents, you wouldn't have had that problem," he points out. Patrick has the grace to ignore him. It's becoming a finely honed talent.

\---

Writing becomes pizza becomes marathonning Romero flicks in the living room. Patrick's stuffed in the corner of the couch, his legs tucked up under himself. Pete's head is pillowed on his calves, pressing them into the tops Patrick's feet uncomfortably. They're starting to go numb, but Patrick can't be bothered to shove him off.

On screen, a shuffling, moaning hoard of zombies are overtaking the mall. One rides up the escalator, the camera panning after him, and Pete laughs. They've watched this movie a handful of times already, but it never seems to get old.

Patrick has one hand in his hair, fingers carefully picking through the fine strands at the crown of his head. He finds one that feels alien- strange, unfamiliar, doesn't belong, doesn't belong, doesn't belong-, locks his fingertips around it, and tugs. He lays it on the arm of the couch and reaches up, searching again. He finds another and plucks it out easily, mouthing along to the characters on screen.

When he realizes what he's doing, Patrick goes stiff. He shoves his hands between his thighs and glances down at Pete, nervous. Had Pete seen him? Does he know? Pete, to his credit, isn't paying any attention to him, his eyes trained instead mindlessly on the television, glassy. In the dark, Patrick counts the numbers of hairs on the arm of the off white couch. There's twenty-two and a half. And a half. Shit.

With a sense of urgency heavy in the pit of his stomach, Patrick's hand flies back up, feeling through his hair again. He has to find that other half. He has to get it out. It doesn't belong, and it'll infect him if he lets it stay. He just needs to get that one out, and then he'll stop. He can stop it any time he wants. He can.

It takes the rest of the movie to find the short hair, and by that time, ten more shiny strands have joined the rest.

\---

Pete's bed is big and soft and smells like fabric softener. He only sleeps in it with company, and the sheets are military tight at the corners, unused. The pillows are big and downy and smell like Pete's shampoo, even though Pete hasn't used them for nearly a week.

Six days ago, Patrick had laid in this bed and let Pete kiss him stupid. Six days ago, he'd felt the soft, cold covers against his bare skin and felt Pete's hands slide over his through the silky sheets, slow and soft. Part of him wants to look for evidence that they'd been there; the rest of him of him goes hot at the memory, and he feels suddenly awkward, stuck in the middle of the room with nowhere to go.

"We can do it again," Pete says, hot breath in Patrick's ear. Patrick startles, fighting down the blush that's crawling over his cheeks. Pete laughs and wraps his hands over Patrick's hips, his chest warm and damp from his shower, solid at Patrick's back. 

"You're sort of shameless," Patrick says, trying for glib. His voice comes out shaky instead. Pete laughs again. It's rough and low, already familiar against Patrick's skin.

"Dude. Just shut up and take your pants off," he says, and Patrick. Patrick can do that.

Pete's hands skitter under Patrick's shirt as Patrick reaches for his belt, his fingers crooking into the soft give of Patrick's sides. They're hot and rough and Pete's, and Patrick raises his arms long enough for Pete to yank his t-shirt off. When it's laying on the floor in a little green heap, Patrick reaches forward and yanks Pete in, catching his mouth in a messy kiss. 

Pete tastes like the cinnamon of his toothpaste, his tongue slick against Patrick's.Pete's chest is hot and smooth against his, the coolness of his nipple ring leaving an imprint in Patrick's skin. It's hot in a way Patrick only used to dream about, Pete all over him and waiting for it, the hard line of his cock digging into Patrick's hip.

Patrick jerks when Pete's hand slides into his jeans, open but still hanging at his hips, too tight to fall off on their own. Pete's thumb rubs at the damp crease of Patrick's thigh, enough pressure to keep it from tickling, and he swallows the moan that creeps up from Patrick's throat, grinning against Patrick's mouth.

Pete's fingers scratch through the curls at the base of Patrick's dick, blunt nails scraping against his skin. Patrick rocks towards him like he can't help it, breath coming up short. He's aching for it, head going dizzy with the buzz of arousal in the pit of his stomach. Pete's mouth trials hot and wet across his jaw, his stupid big teeth nipping at the tender spot under Patrick's ear as his hand finally wraps around Patrick's dick.

It feels fucking fantastic, and Patrick closes his eyes and fucks up into Pete's fist like it's the last thing he'll ever do . His jeans are too tight around his thighs, cutting off his movements, but it's enough. Fuck it's enough. His heart's in his throat, bullying his air away, and Pete's at his front solid and broad and hot, and all thought flees from him as he comes.

It's embarrassing, but he's all of sixteen years old and Pete's the sort of hot he's only ever dreamed about. Pete grins at him, smug, and Patrick takes it as a challenge. Fuck Pete if he thinks he's got the advantage here.

It's easy to slip down, his knees cracking against the floor as he crash lands, and the look on Pete's face is enough to make the dull ache worth it. His jeans are still open, the insides sticky and wet and uncomfortable as he tucks his fingers into the loose folds of the towel around Pete's waist and yanks it down.

Pete's hard for him, his dick thick and shiny wet at the tip, curled up against his flat stomach. Patrick looks up at him through his eyelashes, hoping it looks coy rather than ridiculous, and mouths his way across the tops of Pete's thighs until they shake. It makes him feel powerful; he's doing this. _Him_.

He's mostly going on what he's seen in porn, wrapping his lips around the fat, damp head and suckling at it, jaw stretching almost too far open. Tears well up in he corner of his eyes when Pete's hips jerk, a cough tickling at the back of his throat. Pete soothes him, one hand wrapping around the base of his dick, salty and warm against Patrick's mouth as he jerks at what doesn't fit. 

"Fuck, you're perfect for this," Pete says above him, choked off and tight. Patrick hollows his cheeks and thinks _of course_. He'll be perfect at moonwalking if that's what Pete wants.

Pete's hand curls into Patrick's hair, sticky with spit, and he tugs as he gets close, guiding Patrick's face forward and back. Patrick stares up at him, riding it out as best he can, swallowing down the spit that's building up in his mouth. The pad of Pete's thumb brushes over a bare patch of scalp and Patrick jerks, choking on Pete's dick.

He splutters when Pete comes, the thickness of it spilling out over Patrick's chin in warm rivulets. It's bitter enough to make him cough, and he spits awkwardly into his hand, wiping it off on the damp towel on the ground.

"Fuck," Pete breathes. He sinks down, his eyes glassy and mouth stretched into a blissed out grin, stupidly, annoyingly happy. "That's hot." He rubs a smear of his come into Patrick's jaw, awe written across the darkness of his eyes. It makes Patrick's heart flutter and his cheeks heat up. There's a few hairs stuck to Pete's palm, red and thin and familiar.They curl up together in Pete's bed and Patrick picks out the broken pieces of hair as Pete sleeps against his chest.

\---

There's a tiny bald spot at the crown of his head. It takes the use of two awkwardly juggled mirrors to see it, but it's there all the same, pale in the mess of his uncombed hair. Patrick blinks at it and tries to remember if anyone in his family has a baldness problem.

They don't.

It wouldn't be so much of a problem- okay, yes, it would- if it weren't for Pete. Pete with his wandering fingers and clingy hands and curious mouth. They'll be on the couch or the floor or at the kitchen table, and Pete's fingertips will creep through his hair, slow and unintimidating, until they're rubbing at the bare spot of skin, rough pads dragging slowly against his scalp in small circles, tracing the border of it curiously, like it's not weird at all.

It's infuriating. Really, it's not like Patrick doesn't have enough issues already, but now Pete's rubbing this in too, and that's just- Jesus, Pete's a fucking jerk.

That's the thought in his head as he runs his own fingers through his hair, separating the strands and staring at the chalkboard with glassy eyes. He's seventeen and has a soft tummy and a growing bald spot and a douchebag for a best friend. He tugs and two hairs pull loose. He lines them up on his desk carefully, root to root like a puzzle.

His phone goes off, vibrating against the underside of the desk. Patrick jerks, scrambling for it before Mrs. Locke can hear it. When his heartbeat finally levels out, he flips it open, unsurprised when he sees Pete's name on the screen.

_need my musical genius & blowjobs_

Patrick rolls his eyes and glances up before typing out a reply.

_three hours of class left. give yourself a blowjob._

There's a full minute of silence, which is something like a major feat for Pete. Patrick bounces his legs under the desk and peeks down at his phone anxiously until the screen lights up.

_not as pretty as u_

Patrick's face goes hot as he shoves his phone back into his pocket. Maybe Pete's not so bad after all.

\---

Patrick has a problem.

He can admit it now, sitting in the principal's office, hands between his thighs as he waits for his name to be called. His problem is that Janie Brighton is sitting two seats away from him, her cheeks pink and her eyes averted. She looks guilty and Patrick sneers to himself. She fucking should.

They had been in Bio, ten minutes from the bell, and she had raised her hand, scuttling up to the front desk when she'd been called on. Patrick had ignored it, focusing instead on the genus chart in front of him. He's aways had a thing for science, and he was actually interested in the project for what seemed like the first time ever. The sharp movement of Janie's arm caught his attention, and when he looked up, Mr. Buroker was watching him.

So. Here he is, hand drifting up to his head and back down nervously, waiting.

When they're called in, Janie tells the principal that she's been noticing Patrick pulling his hair out for weeks. She's _concerned_ for him and wants him to get _help_. Also, it's _weird_.

Patrick scoots out of his chair and very carefully doesn't run to his car. 

\---

Pete is- not sympathetic exactly, but he gives Patrick head in the living room until Patrick forgets about it. Sometimes, Patrick really loves dating a dude. 

"It's not so bad," Pete says in the middle of _The Craft_. On the screen, the weird Goth chick is stroking a beached shark reverently. Patrick tips his head back and blinks up at him. There's a dark smear of eyeliner under his left eye that looks ridiculous. "For, you know. A thing."

"I'm not actually following you." The back of the couch is leaving a thick indent across Patrick's side from where he's pressed into it, uncomfortably sticking between his ribs. Pete's thighs on either side of his shoulders are solid, though, and from his spot on the floor, Patrick's got a pretty awesome veiw.

"The hair thing." Pete taps a finger against the bare patch at the crown of Patrick's skull.

It takes Patrick a second to realize that the blood on his hand is also the blood dripping from Pete's nose. His hand throbs, and, shit- 

"Shit. Sorry. Sorry." He scrambles up, fist sore from impact, and tries to staunch the bleeding with the hem of his shirt. He's sure Pete's saying something important, but all Patrick can hear is a garble from where Pete's face is smashed into his stomach, blood seeping through right over his naval. 

It takes a few seconds of push and pull, but he ends up bare from the waist up, ruined Morrisey shirt shoved part way up Pete's nostrils.

"It doesn't count as domestic violence if we're not married, right?" Patrick tugs at a fistful of hair and tries not to squirm. Pete laughs wetly.

"Dude," he says. He doesn't seem pissed, which is great, because Patrick's still not really sure of how he got from point A to point knock-Pete-out.

They sit in silence for a long time, Pete's occasional snorting and snuffling making Patrick wince. Patrick feels vulnerable and naked and very, very young. He doesn't even try to stop himself when he reaches up to pluck at his hair. It seems pointless. 

When he goes to leave an uncomfortable hour later, Pete makes him stand at the door, sweating in his bloody shirt while Pete rummages through the downstairs closet. He comes out triumphantly, a wad of fabric in his fist. Patrick barely catches sight of the checkered knit pattern before Pete's yanking it onto his head.

"You don't have to wear it here," Pete says, shifting nervously in front of Patrick. "But, you know, for school and stuff. So you don't-" He tugs at his own hair and Patrick feels himself go hot.

"Thanks," he mutters to Pete's chest. It feels like he's running away when he heads for his car. 

\---

The hat helps.

Patrick takes his detentions with a muttered apology, head hung as the principal rails him. His brief stroke of defiance seems weak and immature as he signs the three slips.

"Patrick," the principal says. He's laying the concern on thick. Patrick squirms. "You have a problem." Outside the window, two cars drive past. Patrick tries to pretend he's in one of them. It doesn't work. "I think you should see someone."

"Is this mandatory?" Patrick asks. When the principal shakes his head, Patrick gathers his backpack and detention slips. "Then I'll pass."

In Bio, he doesn't look at Janie. At the end of class, he finds fluff on his desk, but no hair. It feels like an improvement. Like he's getting better. 

\---

"You know," Patrick says slowly, "you getting off on my weird impulse control thing is kind of fucked up." 

He's sprawled out on the basement floor, one hand on his laptop, the other tucked up under his chin. The pads of Pete's fingertips itch against his neck, rubbing back and forth. Pete shrugs and presses his mouth to the top of Patrick's head. 

"I'm kind of fucked up," he says, voice vibrating into Patrick's skull, lips dragging over the bare skin there. Patrick can't really argue that point. He presses play and hums along as the track plays. The urge to jerk away is under his skin, but the hot pressure of Pete at his back, warm and loose, makes him stay still. 

Pete hates the second verse. Patrick tells him to fuck off. Pete shoves a hand down Patrick's jeans instead. They forget about the song entirely.

That night, Patrick wakes up sweating. He feels like he's dying, breath coming in too short, chest crushing in. He can't hear past his heartbeat pounding, can't see in the dark. He's going to die twisted up in his sheet, three days away from his first real gig.

He's got Pete's hat on, pulled down low over his ears. Patrick rips it off and grabs a fistful of hair. It's still there. He tugs and tugs and tugs, and the pressure in his chest dies away slowly, his heartbeat stuttering. 

He spends the rest of the night online, looking up his symptoms. 

\---

Pete offers Patrick the number to his therapist Saturday night. They're waiting for Chris and Joe, perched on the stage like they know what they're doing. The place is empty, but there's a tiny crowd waiting to see the band they're opening for outside. 

"I don't have a problem," Patrick says. He doesn't think about the cold sweats or the anxiousness that's been eating at him. He tugs on the bill of his cap and grinds his teeth. He's fine. Pete shrugs and knocks their legs together, silent. 

Their equipment is a mess of patch work brands, old drums and Pete's shitty bass. Patrick's guitar is still mostly new, but Joe's has a crack up the neck that makes him a half-step flat more often than not.

They take too long to set up, and kids start filing in as they start soundchecking. Patrick taps his mic and winces at the static that echoes back at him. For the first time all night, he feels ill. He's actually getting stage fright.

"Cool hat," Joe says as they meander back to their holding room. Patrick nods, but he can't really feel much past the coldness that's settling into his stomach like a ball of lead.

He has to warm up. If he's shit, everyone'll think _they're_ shit, and that's not- They're not that bad. Not really. So he has to warm up, just to make sure.

It's easy to slip away. He finds a back room and closes himself in, CD player in one hand. He feels stupid, singing in a fucking closet, but music's always calmed him down, and calm is just what he needs.

His hands aren't shaking anymore when he finally steps back into the hallway. There's still a small army of angry insects in his gut, but he's not going to barf on Pete or anything, so it should be fine.

Pete drags him on stage and introduces them with a whirlwind of energy, his voice booming over the mic. The bored kids in the front row blink up at Patrick, their faces like stone. Patrick taps his mic again and hopes for a miracle.

They suck. Actually, suck is too generous. Joe's off, and Chris can't keep beat, and Patrick's voice cracks like it hasn't since he was fourteen. The kids lose interest faster than Pete can talk them into paying attention, and it's truly, truly awful.

Patrick nearly runs off stage when it's over, his chest aching. He sets his guitar against a wall and promptly blacks out.

\---

There's a clump of hair in his palm.

It clings to his skin, thin and dark and all his. Some of the roots are red, and his scalp aches as he catches sight of it. When he reaches up to touch the back of his head, Patrick feels blood.

The room's dark but familiar. Pete's, with its big bed and soft comforter. Pete's next to him, anxious face pulled tight and hands jittery. He unwinds Patrick's fingers very carefully and plucks the hairs off his skin, one by one.

"You wouldn't let go," Pete says tightly. "We couldn't make you stop." Patrick reaches for Pete's leg with his free hand, but he winds up with the wool cap instead. He pulls it on, scalp stinging at the contact, and tries not to shake.

Pete's watching him like he's going to bolt. Patrick wants to bolt; wants to run away and hide under a rock. He's such a god damn screw up. Such a god damn freak. Pete kisses his wrist and drops the hairball onto the floor.

"I think I need that number again," Patrick says when he can breathe properly.

"Yeah." Pete curls around him and holds his hands when they start shaking. "Yeah."


End file.
